Sirius's Fall
by Kali Rhian
Summary: When Sirius fell throught the veil, what else moved, besides the slight swing of the curtain? Who's subconscience is stirred and indecisive, whirling in the aftermath of the death of one so great...
1. For Pity

For Pity

Peter bashing

Summary: What would you do for pity, what would you become if that which sustains and handicaps you, engulfs you?

* * *

For Pity

In the end, he knew he was a dead man anyways. He rubbed his chubby hands together nervously, pondering his choices, still in shock yet reeling from the power surge he felt.

_JamesSiriusRemusLilyJamesSiriusRemusLilyJamesSiriusLilyJamesJamesJamesJames…_

He felt an inhumane smile cross his face, felt the harsh lines contort around his mouth. He found he could no help himself, a laugh broke free from his jaws, raw and hideous, betraying he fatal rat poison inside.

He laughed again, _if Sirius could see me now,_ why, would he have the savage pleasure of looking upon a face so esteemed—twisted in an unparalleled rage? It was sweet satisfaction that the crime he so arduously performed, the child with a man's face would pay for.

Oh he could imagine Remus' confusion, he could just see the pitiful man-no, wolf who desired to be man—reel in bewilderment and delusion, heart heavy laden with sorrow. Sorrow for Lily, sorrow for, James.

He allowed his smile to drift in thought of James, his idol, his life, his very dream. Why, he had worshiped the very ground he walked upon yet still, it was not enough to join into the ranks of true friendship among them. He was not wanted; he was left out, grubby Peter who couldn't transform on his own, pudgy Peter that only received pity. You could even go so far as to say he lived for it, for the short attention that would fall on him, when beautiful eyes would gaze intensely, hurting—for him. Peter himself could never conjure that sentiment; he could not break away from raw adoration to even notice those who suffered more than he. But who really cared, Peter didn't, he was no _lion_. He could perform no great task; he sat there, hid in a cracked corner and begged, without any shred of dignity, for attention.

Ah, but he could see. He spent time observing people, you see. He noticed their fleeting eyes, the gestures that grew familiar, he noticed the love.

_love,_

What a strange word, strange that it should occur to him now that he never had any. He shrugged, he had not loved either, he had not cared, he would have been dismayed if James had ever been hurt, (which he was, consequently) but not devastated. He would breathe, pretend sadness, and let the pity flow; he would let it pour over him like a cold shell that held so much warmth. They would fawn over him in a disparity to not see him crumple, and he knew, he _knew _with another sadist smile, that they would pity him even now. Ha, he would enjoy this procession of sadness for his body; he would disfigure his body for it. His gaze turned to the bloody stump where his finger had once been, smiling.

He liked the look of blood; it was the only thing he felt he shared with others, the scarlet red tinge that stained pale flesh flecked with dark-crude hair. He wondered if; well, if Remus would find him, if the small boy (who oddly did not like pity) could understand. But no, Remus would not; he would _want _to believe it was Sirius, just for an explanation for his uncertainty. Remus, for all his virtues, could not trust someone to save his life, not even Sirius. He probably thought he did though, now, he would be set firm against it. Peter Pettigrew, the only one to grow old and fat, he would remain.

He would kill off the rest of the Marauders, he would. James, the beautiful boy, was now cold and lifeless, sitting in the rubble of his home, arms now limply hanging around the body of Lily, half of his face charred away, and her brilliant red hair burnt coarsely. She—who stole James away form them, away from, _him._

_I suppose love _doesn't _conquer all, for that is what I have done. I have conquered, I have overcome love. _

That is what he thought, then. That is which he lived for, for which the pitiful rat took to his pathetic life of a pet rat, slave to a Weasly.

That is what drove him to become and conform to whatever duty was put to him, a rat, a worm, and conniving insane man, the ultimate betrayer.

That is what pushed that handsome man through the veil, the lovely black wisps of hair disappearing beneath the crimson curtain.

That is he who watched with unparalleled glee the utter anguish that crossed the boy's face when Sirius was engulfed in darkness.

That is what would lead to the exciting rat hunt, when the wolf would come out to hunt. This is when pity is discarded, and only a frigid contempt remains.

The wolf would come out to hunt, for the twelve long years that were wasted pointlessly.

The wolf would come out to hunt.

The wolf would come out to hunt.

The wolf would come out to hunt.

_JamesSiriusRemusLilyJamesSiriusRemusLilyJamesSiriusLilyJamesJamesJamesJames…_

_JamesSiriusRemusLilyJamesSiriusRemusLilyJamesSiriusLilyJamesJamesJamesJames…_

James, James, would that you should know it was me who finished the marauders; it was me that tore you apart. Pity me James, for I do not deserve it, pity me, pity, me, for I do not deserve it.

_Delicate—it the potency of lies,_

_Swaying—beckons the temptation that binds._

_Irrelevant love bound in its hate,_

_A decadent confession made far too late._

_Blood staining crude hands,_

_Heeded lawless, feral demands._

_Blood-red eyes speak the order,_

_Refusal worthless in the hazy border._

_No light not dark, only power,_

_The lion so brave, reduced to cower._

_The hate that consumed of violent malice,_

_Produces the boy, to be one so callous.

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_


	2. The Fall of the House of Black

The Fall of the House of Black

(post-OotP)

* * *

Shock was the first—or last feeling registered, immaculate shock, obtusely apparent in the blank expression on his face. I felt the panic register on my own face, and watching his, he seemed so unaware—so lost. His arms flew out in front of him; I wanted so desperately to grab them with my own, to heave him back to safety. Her scream, the piercing yell of that wretched woman reverberated throughout the room, seemingly holding everyone in the raw horror of her actions. It was a ringing word, not a dreaded one, but so very impromptu. He remembered seeing his black hair, long once more, whirl out in front him as his arms were, lips slightly parted in a slight, "Oh," of surprise.

I remembered trying to form a word between my lips, but only an odd croaking came loose, I remember the refusal in my mind, not accepting the fact that he was falling, falling. I realized what the word was that had been forming, a feeble cry, croaked and softly stricken fell from my lips, "Sirius," I tried to cry, but my question was drowned out in Harry's piercing scream:

"SIRIUS!

SIRIUS!"

There it was, there, wait—what? No, there was no way he was disappearing slowly; there was no way that such an unbreakable person could be falling prey to such a simple curse! Her laughter rang through the room, the laugh deviously disproportioned, hair as dark as his, whirling around her, hair as soft and as beautiful.

His was going, his hands were grasping out, it seemed he willed his body to move; it seemed he tried desperately to swerve his head around, to utter a quick farewell—

The veil moved as he fell through it, it moved so slightly, and his body did not come out of the other side, his body was gone…he was gone. It seemed silence gripped them all, until all pandemonium broke loose, a ferocious fighting ensured, screams and anguish echoed mercilessly in the room, I saw Harry, Harry was doing what I could not, he was trying to save him…

"Harry NO!" I heard myself shout, as I clutched him close to me, his body shaking with suppressed cries, heaving with the sobs that threatened to pour through him, relentless.

"It's too late, Harry." Hearing my own voice saying this proclamation startles me.

"He's gone."

The veil moved, and fell once more into place, as if it had done its job it lay there smug, it was silent, how dare it be silent!

A tear trickled down his cheek, how dare they all just stand there! How dare she laugh! His hands itched to wring themselves around her thin little neck: Bellatrix Lestrange. His echo still remained, a slight scent still hung in the air, waiting, probing.

I still clutched desperately to Harry, he tried so hard to wring free of my grasp, he cursed, kicked, "What are you doing!" he asked, incredulous. I held him, while the sobs that did not fall racked our minds.

After that day, Harryhad gone, gone to do battle.

* * *

If he smiled, he found, people averted concerned glances. They seemed not to notice at all, no one seemed to even fancy the idea that he, Remus Lupin, would pine over the loss of his last best friend.

So he smiled, and held his head high, he threatened the Dursley's with a pleasant tone, and he strode with a purpose. He did not look like one who suffered from grief. But he was, terribly so. He returned after that day from that hateful place, he returned to headquarters. It was his job, after all.

He mourned silently. No one wondered after him, not Harry, not anyone, especially not Sirius. Harry was too consumed in his grief for others to notice that Remus might be hurting as well. How could they, though? He gave them to evidence to suggest such a thing. Instead he simply smiled a fractured smile, only slightly, and melted into his shabby attire. He would mourn, as a friend or co-worker would mourn, but he would not shed a tear in a visible area. He would not subject himself to that liberty.

It was an empty feeling really, he felt lost, like a robot of those silly muggle movies. He performed tasks lifelessly, Molly administering to him as if he would break with a simple touch. Maybe he would, he honestly didn't know anymore. His hands breezed through the paperwork, being the only dry face among the small crowd. He must stay strong, if not him, then who would?

He did not bother with a sigh; rather, he pulled his shabby cloak tighter, seeking a comfort. Faces drifted in front of him, kind faces, and helpful faces. Odd, he always thought at the most difficult times, and the times when he would need the most guidance, his friends would stand beside him. He always assumed they would there, comforting, a solid presence. None were here, he was alone, and he was the last one left.

Peter.

The thought burned in his brain, and his mind dwindled down to one, burning malicious intent.

Peter.

He tasted it, tasted the bitter tang of revenge, he would taste it, he would hunt. His fangs barred suddenly, he felt his teeth grow long and sharp, people recoiled instantly, alarmed. A hand on his shoulder—Dumbledore—comforting words.

He himself could only utter one word, a name, spat forth from his mouth like a vile taste, "Peter."

The old wizard shook his head, although I did not register the slight disapproval in his eyes, the defeat in his shoulders. I felt the waning moon come closer to its peak, when that unspeakable glory would be beautifully horrendous. My nocturnal fear would eat at me with a savage glee, preying on my weakness, holding me inevitable to its call.

A presence lacked, a light, bounding presence. It was friendly and easy to befriend, my Sirius. I felt my resolve crumble around the one thought in my mind, I knew I would never see him again; I would be alone once more…once more.

Never again! My mind whispered softly to me, taunting me with the grim knowledge, Sirius was dead, Sirius was dead, Sirius was dead, NO!

A hot tear fell from my eye, the burning hurting too much, NO! It left a warm path down my cheek, my tears were once kissed away softly, and they were once…NO!

I felt me wand fall from my hands, and I clutched my head, fingers roughly pressed against my eyes, the coarseness of my own hands scratching the flesh softly.

How could he be gone! How could he leave me here with no one else, with no one…?

I felt my body dissolve, never again, he was gone, and I felt my body dissolve. How could this be? I felt my body dissolve, was he really gone? No, through that door he would walk right now, demanding another slice of chocolate cake, insisting I had eaten the last piece.

More tears trickled down my face.

I would sigh, 'No, Sirius, I haven't touched the cake yet, I didn't even know we had it.'

'You know bloody well you can't keep your hands off chocolate to save your life, you know it!' He demanded so many times, such a rash, reckless person.

The burning had not stopped, yet now it seemed I couldn't stop my body from shaking.

'Just go and look in the fridge.' 'No,' he would demand, 'you get it you prat.' I always fell for that playful smile, the black hair falling around his face gently, eyes pleading, pleading constantly. 'Oh all right,' I would say, getting out the cake dutifully, before hurling it at his face. The look was priceless.

The shaking was so bad my arms clung to my sides desperately, and burning, painful tears fell one at a time as I tried blinking them away rapidly. It didn't work.

He looked shocked, and then commenced appearing unfazed, licking his lips to get the chocolate off of him, yet it was still splattered on his nose and cheeks. He looked at me with a burning gaze, and helpless to my body I reacted helplessly. I leaned forward slowly and kissed his nose, letting my tongue lap up any more of the sweet chocolate on the bridge of his nose. He murmured something incoherent, 'Hmm, here also.' I kissed his entire face, loving the taste of him and the rich chocolate icing and cake that still clung to his face.

I clawed at my skin, cried out for my vagabond man, cried out for my best friend. The tears fell hot and unwelcome; I felt it gather at the corner of my eye, drip down with achingly slow precision, it was so very horrid.

I recalled the days of the Marauders, of our wild escapades, and let myself drown in reverie.

It was his face once more, tanned and tight against his bones, his troubles laid barren in his black eyes; I wanted to touch the skin, to feel if it was as coarse as it appeared. James, with his tousled black hair, and wild eyes dancing mischievously, all lights extinguished. And the rat, the rat came into my thoughts, pinpointing his faults, his doting on James, near adoration of his very presence. Hate burned within me, hate burned vapid and unparalleled.

I would find him, I would find the only one remaining, and I would finish him. His pudgy face swam into my vision once more, blank and stupid, infuriating with the thought. All the helplessness, all the unfair pretenses I poured into my malice for this vermin. I poured all that pushed and pulled at my sanity into one throbbing core of my utter hate for this rat, this _thing _that deserved nothing short of what would be delivered. Harry will have his fight, and I will have mine.

I, the wolf, would engage in what I had always feared, a hunt. When the pale beauty rises to greet me, I shall welcome her gaze, and not dote upon the crippling pain with threatened to subdue instantly.

The wolf would come out to hunt.

The wolf would come out to hunt.

The wolf would come out to hunt.

_Remus Lupin,_

_Entry 12,_

_August 1996

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End file.
